Insatiable
by frizzy.writings
Summary: The re-appearance of a certain "friend" ends up triggering a detrimental change in Clyde and Craig's routine lifestyle. Slash.
1. Desire for Gloves

A/N: Hurrah this chapter only took me forever to do. Unfortunately this means, I'm going to be really slow with updates. School's a killer.

This is going to be a POV story (it will switch off between Clyde and Craig - first chapter is Clyde), and I have to apologize, I switched between past and present tense a lot in this chapter because I couldn't make up my mind, so, hopefully some day (soon) I will go and fix it (I'm pretty sure it will all be in present tense, though). I didn't specifically cite the pairing(s) in this story, just because it's like a mild spoiler I guess, but really it should be pretty obvious what's going on.

T for language and whatever. Slash in this story so if you're not cool with that, sorry.

* * *

I never thought I was going to end up one of those people with a safely routine life – with a predictable, but _good _life. I mean, seriously. I know in elementary school I basically thought I was God's gift to the human race and that my life was epically awesome, but in elementary school nothing really seems to count. When you're little, you're so busy making up other worlds and lives you don't bother to think about your own. Which is nice, there's that whole ignorance is bliss thing. I didn't really start thinking about life, about my job and a family and surviving outside of high school without a tax-free ten-dollar-a-week-allowance, until high school. Around the time I realized I was gay. Okay, really, it wasn't "about" the time, it was the _exact_ time. A realization like that, your whole view sort of changes, like you were walking and then the whole world gets tilted sideways so everything is skewed and kind of falling away from you. A family - would I get a family? Would I still have _my_ family, what would my parents think? My friends? Could I get a job? Would anyone like me? When the most prominent gay figure in your life is your 4th grade elementary school who went through multiple mid-life crises, many of which involved sex changes and sexual identity issues, it's really no wonder you might end up with such a frightening view of homosexuality.

I came out on accident. It was 11th grade, and I had gotten stuck in the Technical Research class, which was basically a class where you researched for the sake of research. Our teacher had given us some lame assignment where we just had to do a powerpoint about whatever the hell we wanted and present it to the class. It was my turn to go, after Cartman's long powerpoint about Hitler and his theorized relationship to Jesus Christ, so basically, just more of the same bullshit from him. My topic was about homosexuality in Ancient Rome - not because I'm a fag or something, seriously, we were just studying Ancient Rome in World History so I thought it'd be easy because I wouldn't have to do more research. Really. I didn't even think it was that weird until after I was done. I got some sad applause from the few kids who were still awake (namely Pip and Gregory, something wrong with the Brits I guess) and went back to my seat, behind Cartman.

"Alright, Kevin you're up next," said our teacher after a slight delay. I don't think you should be allowed to teach a class you won't even pay attention to. Two seconds later, Cartman's hand shot up."Yes, Eric, what is it?"

"Uhm, yea, I was just wondering if I could change seats 'cuz I'm totally not cool with having Clyde-queero oggle my ass all day."

I want the world to crack open and swallow me whole. It shouldn't have even bothered me. I mean, it's Cartman for Christ's sake. He stopped getting classroom-wide laughs for all his stupid shit after fifth grade. But even the quiet snickers I could hear behind me were enough to cause my face to heat up, like the world really did decide to drop me down into hell, only it took the rest of the class with me.

"Shut up," I said, but the words could hardly make it past the choking embarrassment in my throat.

"Oooh, now I'm real scared. What are you gonna do, Clyde, pound my butt all night?" mocked Cartman. The laughter was increasing, I could feel it crawling into my ears and echoing around my head. It was all I saw as I jumped up and, without thinking about how stupid it was and how dumb I was acting, ran out the door.

Most people will disappear to the bathroom to cry (and, embarrassingly enough, I could tell from the clawing, burning feeling in my throat I was on the brink of tears) - if you're a girl that is, or Butters. But I was trying to avoid the whole being a total gaywad thing, which was going fantastically so far, so instead I ended up hiding out beneath the bleachers. It was December, Christmas vacation was in just another week and already a soft smattering of snow was beginning to fall. Beneath the bleachers the snow fell in neat little lines, as divided by the gaps between the long benches. Lines that I kicked and smeared over as moved to sit in the middle, directly beneath one gap so that the snow would land and stick to my hair. When I was little, and I still thought snow was cool even though it was basically a constant in my life, I was always fascinated by the way hair just seemed to draw snow to itself. When I went inside I used to rush quickly to the mirror, so I could look at the snowflakes still stuck to my hair, before they all melted.

Now there's going to be snow all over me - soaked through the seat of my pants, stuck to the back of my J-Mart jacket, creeping down my bent over neck, because I've bundled myself up like I do when I'm home–home, not at school, not just outside the school, which begs the question, _what am I doing_?

I realized I had basically blew it. Cartman was just being a jackass, cracking gay jokes like he always did. But to react? To run away and cry like the fucking fag I knew I was, like they all knew I was now...I wanted to just sit there forever and let the snow freeze over me. Being remembered as the creepy little snow-statue was looking better than being the town fag at this point. I couldn't imagine what people would think, I mean, it was junior year and that's basically one of the worst years to suffer huge friendship-break-ups. Everyone's already cemented themselves into groups by then, it's impossible to make new friendships. Bebe...shit, Bebe would know now...I'd been telling myself for a while that I was going to tell her, but...

"You're more of a fag than I thought." I started, jerking my head up to look for intruder, and found Craig, sauntering towards me with his ever-present 'fuck the world' look. "Or else you wouldn't be hiding here acting like a pussy, right?"

I said nothing, only watching as Craig slowed by me. He stood for a moment, looking down at me while I stared back up at him, before he finally sank down to my level, tugging his hat tighter onto his head.

"You know you can't let that fatass get to you," said Craig after a minute, "I mean, sorry to sound like our esteemed school counselor, but really. That's all Cartman does. He just eats shit and then throws it back up on people."

"How'd you know where I was?" I asked instead, my head still sunk into my arms so that my voice was muffled in a way reminscent of Kenny and his elementary school parka.

"I had to sort of look around for a bit, I thought you might have been crying in the boy's bathroom but it was only Butters."

"You're gonna miss the rest of Tech Research..."

Anything to avoid the real topic of conversation. I looked to see Craig leaning back, his hat accented by scattered snowflakes, "Nah, I'm going home after this. I got 'sent home early.'"

"What'd you do, flip off the teacher?" I snorted, turning my gaze back towards the ground.

"No, I punched Cartman in the face. And apparently our school has a 'no violence towards shit heads' policy that I was unaware of."

"Wha, really? Why?"

"I don't know, it's as much a mystery to me as your repressed homosexuality is to you, I bet."

I blushed, "I meant why'd you punch him."

"Because he was copying my math homework," supplied Craig sarcastically, "Why do you think?"

I hadn't said anything, because I couldn't think of anything that could match the grateful pounding in my chest. Craig was standing by me.

"Look," he said, and I was surprised to feel a hand on my shoulder, because the closest Craig got to people was his fist in their face, as demonstrated by Cartman, "If it's any...help, or something, you're not alone." And then the pressure on my shoulder was gone, and I looked up to see Craig walking away.

I hadn't realized at the time what exactly it was that he meant when he said "you're not alone." I had just thought that he meant he wouldn't abandon me or anything. But nearly one year later, I was surprisingly shocked to find I was wrong, and now, eight years later as I'm getting out of bed, Craig's sleeping form stretched out next to me, it's clear what he meant.

I'm not happy to be up - I don't understand why my alarm clock is ringing. It's Saturday morning, it should be off. I'm slamming down repeatedly on the clock, wondering why it won't shut the hell up when I realize the shrilly ring that woke me up doesn't sound like my alarm clock, so much as it does a phone. In my defense, I'm not very clever this early in the morning, and did I mention it's Saturday? I'm torn by my body's first desire, which is to stay wrapped in the warm, safe sheets and attempt to fall back asleep, and my second desire, which is to just shut up the goddamn phone. I wait it out, letting the answering machine take the call, only to hear the phone start ringing two seconds later. Grumbling, I get up, trip over the sheets that my ankles have ended up tangled up in, and move over to the corner of the room where our phone is. The only phone jack in our room is in the one clear corner, and we're too cheap to buy an extra little table for it to stand on so it's just sort of there in it's own little no-man's land.

"What?" I snap into the receiver, sitting against the wall. In the corner of my eye, I can see Craig's still sleeping body shift over, his legs already starting to take advantage of my absence and invade my side of the bed. Fantastic, I think, but I can't help but smile. The man can sleep through basically anything, including the yelling and hitting of an upset boyfriend. I can tell you that for a fact.

The loud "GAH!" on the other end of the phone is enough to jolt me awake a little more than was necessary. I stare at the phone, trying to remember just where the hell I'd heard that voice before. All I have to do is bring the phone back to my ear, and it all comes rushing back, "...and I thought 'Jesus this is a bad idea! Who knows what's happened they could be government slaves now or something!' but in case if you weren't, I thought you might get mad if I came back and you didn't know and, Christ! I don't want you guys to be mad!"

The strained voice, the breathless tone, traced with the occassional high-pitched caffeinated squeak that skipped an octave above his regular pitch. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. "Tweek!" I shouted into the phone, not having to worry about Craig waking up because, like I said, it's Craig.

"AH!"

"Holy - ! I haven't heard from you in forever," I laughed, wondering briefly if I was still asleep. Then again, if anyone was going to send me a frantic call this early in the morning I guess I should have realized it'd be Tweek Tweak.

"Ehn, Clyde?"

"Yea man," I breathed.

"Is, is Craig there?"

"He's still asleep," I reply, feeling a little miffed that Tweek's first thoughts after talking to me seem to be something like 'why is this not Craig.' Then again, Craig's the one who's been keeping in touch with him after all these years. "And trust me, there's no way he's waking up anytime soon."

"Okay, um–arg! Alright well, uh, can I tell you something and you can also tell him?"

I shift position, staring up at the ceiling. There's a weird stain up there from when Craig had the 'genius' idea of having a beer gun fight by filling up water guns with beer. Just the thought of all the cleaning from the morning after is enough to make me shudder. "'Course Tweek," I say, "What's up?"

"Um, I'm coming back?"

"Dude no way! How long are you staying for?"

"Er, forever? Or until I get sick of South Park again? Jesus Christ, I dont' know!"

Now I'm definetley awake, "Woah, you're coming back, like, for good?"

"Gahn! Should I not!?"

"No, no, it's awesome! I just can't see what makes South Park better than Washington DC."

"Wha...what makes South Park better!? Than Washington!? Do you know what Washington has? There are politicians all over the place! Not to mention all these protests and, and frighteningly liberal people and Jesus, the politicians! With their cellphones! There are cellphones everywhere Clyde I swear I'm going to die of radiation poisoning or something! And food, people sell food off the streets! And oh God, the homeless people and the – the – there are people who play music all over the place! Right in the street! _Everywhere!_"

I laugh. It's the first time I've heard Tweek's ridiculous spazzing out in such a long time, I had almost forgotten what he sounded like. I can just picture him on the other end, getting tangled up in the phone cord as he freaks out about politicans.

Tweek moved out to DC sometime after dropping out of college, when his dad, Mr. Tweak, decided to expand his business. With Washington's addiction to political scandals and expensive coffee, Mr. Tweak had reasoned it would be a good place to open a second shop, and Tweek had quickly volunteered to go run it. It was weird how Tweek had basically jumped at the opportunity to move halfway across the country.

"Where are you staying?" I asked.

"I found a small house -- ack! spider!" The line is filled with a small series of cries and exclamations, from which I can only deduce a small battle to reclaim a pair of socks which have been covered in spider webs is taking place. "Sorry, sorry about that," pants Tweek on the other end, "But uhm, yea I found a house, it's on the same street as Tweak Bros. so that's good 'cause then I won't have to commute and kill the planet."

"Yea, good poi-" I start, the end of my sentence cut off by a huge yawn, which sends Tweek into hysterics about how I'm boring him and how awful he is and how he should really just hang up, "Okay, okay, hold on."

"Seriously! I don't want you to fall asleep with the phone or something and then never hang up and leave the line busy and miss important stuff!"

"When are you coming back?"

"I'm getting there tonight, at like, ten or something and then I'm gonna go see my parents and stay with them until the moving truck comes."

"Dude you have to come see us tomorrow then, okay?" I try to suppress another yawn, and fail.

"Augh! I'm hanging up now!"

"Okay, okay. Hey, don't freak out. And seriously, you're coming to see us. Have a safe flight, man."

"Ghn, thanks! You too - or, I mean, well, uhm, have a safe...day. Er...bye!" There was a sharp click, and the line went dead. I shook my head, still grinning. Trust Tweek to call you out of the blue and tell you he was moving back to South Park after not even seeing him for...I don't even know how long. I replaced the phone on its regular dock, and then made a colossal effort to rise from the floor. I looked towards the bed. Craig had rolled over diagonally onto his stomach, so that he basically enveloped the entire bed, like that big blob thing from that awful horror movie he rented last year. Craig had a special place in his heart for poorly-written low-budget horror movies of the later part of the 20th century, a special place I always grew well acquainted with every Halloween. I stayed standing, watching the small of his back rise and fall from the small push of his stomach with each breath. He had ended up winding himself about the crumpled sheets so that they spiralled up his leg and across his torso and arms, like some sort of kinky roman toga. It was funny to watch him sleep. With some people, mainly, the loud, obnoxious ones who are nothing but muscle and action and snide commentary when they're awake, the sight of them asleep is just such a contrasting image it's like two different people.

I was already up now, and since it seemed like too much of a hassle to get back the bed I figured it was time to continue my job-search, which seemed to have hit a dead end. In South Park, of all places. What are the odds. I moved into the kitchen area of our small apartment, grabbing yesterday's newspaper and settling down with a black sharpie. Spreading out the newspaper on the kitchen table and biting off the cap on my marker, I was reminded again of what an idiot I was after graduating high school. College? I'd thought. Like I just went through twelve years of the public education system and now I'm going to pay for at least four more years? I don't think so.

Well, good job past Clyde, because you really fucked present-day Clyde over, I mused while skimming over the want ads, which take up maybe half a page of our local paper. It's not like you really need a college degree to do anything in this town, but then that means that you're basically limited to living only in South Park, and some consolation that is. Craig doesn't care – it's part of the beauty of him, in how he genuinely does not care about anything. And then there's me, who's freaking out over whether I should submit a job application to Wall-mart, the grocery store, or both. _At least I'm nothing compared to Tweek._

I swept aside a couple of beer cans that were covering the rest of the newspaper page, making a mental note that I'd have to buy more aspirin at the shopping mart later, before deciding to give up on the job search. _Wall-mart and Food Plus, here I come_, I thought as I made my way out of the kitchen and back into the bedroom to grab some clothes -- I don't even know what. Sadly, Craig and I had descended to the point of coupleship where we didn't even keep our clothes separate. Everything was just joined in one big conglomeration of dirty laundry. Occasionally I'd make an effort to sort everything all out and actually fold a couple of socks or iron a shirt or two, but Craig is a natural disaster in his own right. One pass through our room and everything's a mess again. After so many years of such behavior, I've basically resigned myself to living in a war zone for the rest of my life.

"Hey Craig, I'm going to the grocery store, I'll be back in like twenty minutes," I say to the air. I know he's probably still sleeping on the verge of death, but I like to just always feel like we're on the same page anyways. I turned to glance over my shoulder at Craig, who has made no response. Poking my head into the living room, I looked over the scattering of crumpled beer cans and bottles that had sprouted all over the furniture overnight. I didn't know how many people Craig had over last night, but either way, I was guessing he's not getting up for another five or six hours at least. Hell, Tweek might even have been able to make it back here and be all moved in by the time Craig woke up to start bitching about the killer hang over I knew he was gonna have.

It's cold out - surprise, surprise - so I grab a scarf and jacket on my way out the door. The sky is clear, leaving sunlight free to spill onto our dirty little town. Despite the brightness, it's still gotta be a few degrees below zero. There's something so wrong about having a sunny day that's still freezing. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I start the short trek to the local Food Plus, where I'm planning on dropping off my application and picking up aspirin and cereal, Craig's traditional hangover breakfast.

It's almost eerie how totally normal the day is going so far. I feel like with the knowledge of Tweek's arrival, something should be different - the public should be rebelling, aliens should be discovered on the moon, I should get a job. Something that would just throw everything off. But nothing's happening, hell, I don't even feel different, I just feel _like_ I should feel different.

A car horn honks right next to me, which, I'm sort of embarassed to admit, almost -- okay, it does, make me jump a foot in the air. On my left, a car that still glosses with that new, expensive-car shine comes to a smooth stop next to me, and as the tinted windows roll down it's hardly a shock to see Token grinning from the driver's seat. The faded blue scrubs bunched around his body seem almost a crime in the classy, dark leather seats.

He doesn't have to say anything, in two seconds I'm off the sidewalk, pulling open the door and slipping into the passenger seat, adjusting the scarf around my neck so I can speak.

"Turn the heat up, dude, it's freezing today."

"Still too poor to afford gloves, Clyde?" asks Token as he blasts heat in my face.

"We can't all be belabored with rich, overbearing families who insist on giving us cashmere gloves and Maybachs," I reply, picking up the application I had let drop on the floor before. Token snorted in reply.

"Well I know what to get you for Christmas - where are you heading?"

"Food Plus."

For some reason, Token found this amusing, "Nothing says domestic partnership like getting up early to visit the grocery store, huh? Got a shopping list with a cute little nature-themed watermark?"

"I'd like you to know that if you weren't driving right now, I'd totally punch you in the face." Token only laughed, stopping before a red light, "And really, I'm going to drop off an application."

"Application?" He turned to look at me, the same disapproval etched in his brow as I found in my mom's face when I told her college was a waste of time. "Like, for a job?"

"Uh, no college. Yeah, a job."

"I thought you were shooting for something better than waiting tables."

"Food Plus isn't better than stuffing hyperactive five-year-olds with pizza?"

"Barely."

"Well then it's still better," I muttered, before adding, "And it's a helluva improvement compared to unemployed."

"True that," replied Token, "You could always come work at the hospital, you know."

The hospital? Did Token not notice those four years I wasn't at college? "Uh, right, because people without degrees always end up as doctors."

"First of all, it's South Park, so you'd be surprised. And I'm not talking about doctors - pharmacy department could always use a few extra technicians."

"Oh God, wouldn't I have to like, fill up shots and stuff?" I asked, shuddering.

Token's laugh was deep and resounding, a comforting and warm sound in the company of good conversation, or easily condescending when mocking my fear of needles. Look, some people are cool with doctors drilling into their skin and sliding drugs and dead diseases into them, and some people aren't - like me.

"Thanks for the ride," I say as Token drives to a halt in front of the grocery store. The neon letters broadcasting "FOOD PLUS" at the top are mostly burnt out, so the title reads like "OOD PUS."

"No problem. Good luck with the job," he says, shifting the car back into drive when I stop him at the last minute.

"Oh, hey!" I say, just remembering, "Are you busy tomorrow?"

"I think Wendy's looking to rent Mary Poppins - she's on a nostalgic kick right now," he adds in response to my raised eyebrow.

"Okay, um, that's...that's really lame. But you should come by our place, dude, Tweek's gonna be there!"

"Wha? Craig's-twitchy-blonde-bitch Tweek? Thinks mouth wash is a government conspiracy Tweek? Hasn't phoned me up for years Tweek?"

"Do we know any other Tweek's?" I ask, mildly irritated by his first comment, "Yea, he's moving back tonight."

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, staring at the steering wheel, "Really?"

"Yeah really."

"Just when you think South Park's gonna be normal," grinned Token, looking back at me, "Sure, I'll be there tomorrow. See you then."

"Yeah, bye," I say, but he's already drifted across the parking lot. I turn and enter the Food Plus, which is, as always, embarrassingly empty. There's a few bored employees shuffling around the aisles, re-shelving and labeling products under the building's harsh fluorescent lighting. The front is still marked by a small assortment of glass cases that you could pop 50 cents into in exchange for a big sticker or small plastic dinosaur. There were still posters up advertising the Easter sale, which had been over five months ago. This place, it seemed, never changed. A concept which, as I slipped my application into an empty, grey tray, I realized could apply equally as well to me.


	2. Midnight Disruption

_A/N - I fail at tenses. This is just going to be past-tense (excluding moments or phrases where I just screw up). This is not really a happy story, I sort of forgot to maybe mention that. I love all of you who reviewed. Reminder, this chapter's Craig's POV_

I wasn't even sure if I had woken up. The last thing I remembered before falling asleep (or, to be honest, passing out) was forcing two advil down my throat, and then it seemed like two seconds later I'd opened my eyes to find two new aspirin tablets next to an expectant glass of water. Every single goddamn Saturday morning I woke up to the same disorientation by the same water and pills. Albeit, this was probably since I spent every Friday night trying to liquor myself up enough so I could that I could forget the dull repetitiveness of this life. The irony isn't lost on me.

I groaned and rolled over, while the lingering pain in the head shouted at me to turn back and cram down the pills. It was these types of moments when I realized I'd never really left my mother, because she clearly still existed in the nagging voice in the back of my mind. Not that it – her nagging– was something I had often experienced, really. I came from the sort of household where no one really noticed anyone, like a small assortment of fish all collected into one fish bowl. We just spent all our time avoiding each other and bumping into walls.

"Craig? You awake?"

I smiled to myself in the pillows. Now it's the complete opposite case; all I had to do was make one little noise and someone's at my door.

"No, I'm dying, so you can just fuck off," I replied face down. It's a testament to the strength of our relationship that Clyde understood what I was saying.

"Dude, not cool. Take the aspirin. I got up like, super early to go get it at Food Plus."

"Sucks for you."

I felt a sharp yank from under my arms, and it took me a second to realize Clyde was clearly trying to set me vertical. I remained thoroughly unhelpful by not doing anything.

"I wasn't even sure you'd wake up," grunted Clyde, still working on parting me from the bed. "You slept like a vegetable."

"What?" I snorted, "As opposed to a fruit or something?"

"You know, like a patient. In a coma."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense." I replied, wondering again just what Clyde's brain must be doing with all that free time on its hands.

It could be difficult to tell, but I was in a somewhat good mood that morning. Which was as rare as, say, running into Christophe without his stupid shovel strapped to his back. It's even rarer (me waking up, not the Christophe-shovel thing) that I wake up in a good mood post-drinking night. By then, Clyde had given up on actually removing me from the bed and instead let me drop back down. I thanked him by rolling onto my back so I could at least speak properly.

"Guess what?" he said, leaning down so his forehead lightly touched mine. Clyde's a real touchy-feely guy.

"What?" I muttered, shutting my eyes from the unforgiving sunlight that had managed to slip in our room through the blinds. The more I thought about, the more I was beginning to think that taking the aspirin was actually a fairly good idea. The pounding in the back of my head concurred.

"Guess!"

I groaned, "Someone was arrested for shooting their boyfriend after insisting 'guess what!' too many times?"

"Funny. Okay, guess who is coming over tomorrow." I opened my eyes to stare at Clyde, who apparently thought 'guess who' was somewhat better than 'guess what.' Which, you know, maybe it was, but after high school I basically swore off the answering pointless-questions thing.

"I don't know. Token."

"Okay, yea, but someone else."

"Seriously man."

He grinned down at me, "You'll never guess."

"Oh, too bad I don't know someone who knows the fucking answer then."

"Tweek."

I blinked. "Tweek what?"

"Is coming over! Tomorrow!" At that point Clyde had backed away so he could accompany this news with extravagant hand gestures. I couldn't say anything. "He's moving back to South Park!"

It was like my mind had flat lined. I was only aware of my persistent head ache and the fact that Clyde was still grinning, waiting for my reaction, waiting to see how happy I would be to hear that our foursome -- him, me, Token, Tweek -- would be re-united once again. For some reason, I could only perceive what was going on around me. I couldn't bring myself to formulate my own response.

"Are you serious?" I finally managed to say, pushing myself up into a sitting position, "He goes this long without visiting, and now he's just...moving back?" I paused to swallow the aspirin tablets, chasing them down with water while fully aware they were only capable of getting rid of the physical pain in my head. "How do you even know?"

That came out a little more condescending than I had meant it, but if Clyde noticed or cared, he didn't show it, "He called this morning, just to tell." His smile slightened a little, "He asked for you."

"...Shit," I muttered. I rubbed my hand against my eyes, trying to understand why Tweek, who I had emailed religiously for the past six years, would suddenly move back without even mentioning a thing to me.

Tweek and I, like everyone else, had started out as friends on the playground. Funny how with kids, one day they can be fighting to the death and the next be best friends over a shared interest in puppies or something equally nauseatingly cute. I guess with us it had been the monkey bars. I was waiting in line for the them some time in 4th grade and Tweek was standing in front of me, or twitching in front of me, with basically no intention of going on them. I called him out on holding everyone up, and he totally freaked out, started shouting about how I was going to kill him or something. Apparently we'd had some fight the year before, although I'd seriously had no idea what he was talking about. I ended up inviting him to play Red Racer with Clyde and me to get him to shut up, and we just sort of stuck together after that, which worked out fine. I got an extra kid for our Red Racer re-enactments at lunch, and Tweek got actual friends. So it was a win/win situation, sort of. Tweek sucked at Red Racer.

Maybe Tweek didn't realize it, but communication was an element that sort of ended up figuring into the whole 'friendship' thing a lot, and it was something he clearly still had no grasp of. Hell, he only had an email address because of me. Because I had begged him to finally sign up for one when he moved away to Washington. Before that, he'd been worried that he'd get computer viruses or secret Russian spies would hack into his computer and then come kidnap him and hold him for ransom, and that no one would care enough about him to pay and get him back. I told him I always would, no matter the cost, but it ended up taking about 1620 miles between us for him to finally concede that maybe email wouldn't kill him. That, to my relief, using it once a week would be okay. Since then, I had sat through pages and pages of his ramblings and ideas about government conspiracies, crime rates in Washington and new coffee recipes. Clearly the mentioning of such things took priority over him moving halfway across the country back to South Park.

"Dude," said Clyde softly, noticing my aggravation, "Are you okay?"

"Yea man," I lied, "I'm fine."

"How's your head?"

"Fine, thanks for the aspirin."

"No problem," he replied, as I felt his arms wrap around my bare torso, "Weird as it is, I like you more sane and healthy than with a hangover."

"What, I thought my constant bitching and vomiting made for endearing traits," I replied dully, my mind still hung up on Tweek. Clyde and I were running a little tight on money, so I hadn't even been able to see him the whole time he was in Washington. And he'd never come up to visit, but there were always excuses and stuff. I was hardly conscious of Clyde climbing onto the bed, or the trail of kisses he left down my neck. I mean, Tweek had been living in Washington DC, you don't just open and run a business in DC without having some money, right? It's not like it would have killed him to maybe come back up to his home and visit his parents or whatever, and me. I closed my eyes, feeling my head hit the pillow again. I didn't need to think about this.

"Seriously," whispered Clyde, his breath hitting my ear, "Are you alright?"

I opened my eyes to see Clyde's face hovering right above me, genuine concern etched in his brow. I knew what he was feeling, what he was thinking - when your boyfriend's practically sprawled all over your half-naked body it's clear to see what they want. But I also knew that I could say no. I could say I was feeling shitty now, that I was acting like a pussy about the whole thing but it was all I really wanted to do, that I was feeling entitled to a bitchfest at the moment, and he would back off. He wouldn't even feel mad or upset, he'd just be worried about me. He'd probably attempt to make hot chocolate, because that's what Clyde always does when I'm feeling bad. It's a sweet gesture, but Clyde's not a cook. I draw the line at microwave-able macaroni.

"Craig?" He was actually stroking my cheek, his curled up index finger slowly brushing against the side of my face. I looked at him, knowing that in five minutes I could be burning my tongue on half-assed hot chocolate and he'd still be happy.

"Yea," I grinned up at him, swallowing back my anger and snaking my arms around the back of his neck, "I told you, I'm fine."

xxx

I didn't actually get out of bed until three. Partially because I woke up late in the first place, and then partially because once I woke up, I didn't actually get up, if it wasn't already obvious. A whole night of drinking followed by a morning of sex (or I guess it was afternoon then) can seriously tire a guy out. Unless you're Clyde, and even then I'm not sure he counts. Kidding, Clyde's real manly, especially with the whole gay thing going on. Not that I'm seriously one to talk, I guess.

There was a note when I woke up for the second time that day from Clyde, who was apparently at the video store in order to prepare for our weekly movie night. Maybe he would be daring today and buy the cheddar popcorn instead the caramel while waiting in the check out line. Wouldn't that be a shocker.

Normally I would just stay in on Saturday, watch TV, maybe drink some more beer, basically participate in all activities to be expected of someone who lives in our little hick town, minus some wife beating. But I'd already killed most of the day in bed, and after pacing around our lonely apartment, with only thoughts of Tweek bouncing around in my head, I was feeling particularly agitated. So, I grabbed my wallet, left something scrawled on a post-it note because Clyde would throw a hissy fit if I don't leave him a message, and walked out the door.

My hair was still wet from the shower, and the little shivering drops of water that were currently staining the back of my shirt were not improving my mood. Parked outside in the street was Clyde's car - something he insisted was "our" car, but I'm not the one covering the insurance costs. Not to mention we still hadn't gotten around to getting the sole key copied, a key that was currently sitting on the bedside table in our room. But, even though I knew it would be quicker and more comfortable, I opted towards walking in the opposite direction, towards the bus stop. I'd been taking the bus all my life, and by now, the screeching doors, smell of diesel fuel, and awkward conversations initiated by the local retards had become almost comforting. The bus had been following the same routine since forever, too, but it's still different every time you get on.

There was an old woman waiting at the same stop I walked up to. There are two women who frequent this bus stop, but from far away, it was hard to tell if she was quintessential-cat-lady or what-are-you-doing-with-your-life? lady. Upon approaching, it quickly became clear she was the latter. I'd hardly reached the bus stop when she started grilling me about my past education, and then began a long speech on god and how no doubt following his way would lead me to the salvation I was certainly craving. I raised my eyebrows and nodded my head, taking in this new portion of her rant. She'd usually kept religion out of her past moral lectures. Twenty minutes later, five minutes behind schedule (as always), the familiar rumble of the bus became audible, just before the vehicle itself became visible around the bend, jerking to a halt in front of us. The doors breathed open in one forced, sweeping motion, and I waited as the old woman slowly shuffled her way into the bus, pausing a few times on the steps to turn around and offer me some more advice. I wondered what sort of penalty I would suffer if I ran forwards and kicked her bony old grannyass up the remaining steps. Probably wasn't worth it.

It was unusually quiet on the bus that morning-not that I was complaining. I spent the majority of the ride with my forehead pressed up against the glass, so that I knew by the time I got off I would have a huge red mark on my face. Clyde, Token and I used to do that all the time when we were little, and we would see who could get the reddest marks. Tweek, because he was too frightened by the concept of leaning his head against the window (the window was glass and it was moving so naturally it was totally possible for it to just pop out and break and shatter your skull), would act as our judge. He's not the most impartial person, though, which implies that he acts biased but really, it's more like he just can't deal with any sort of decision, even when it's as simple as declaring who has the stupidest looking face.

I had the route memorized, so even though my eyes were closed for the majority of the ride, I knew precisely when to get off. It was the fifth stop, and even if the driver went out of order you could still tell because there were two bumps the bus hits in a row, right before it pulled up to the stop. I was up before the bus had even stopped, clearly an established bus veteran since I could keep my balance as it came to an abrupt and noisy halt.

I was the only one who got out in front of the South Park Community Thrift Shop. It's a crummy place, really, with scuffed up floors and harsh fluorescent lighting, that smells like a mix between the Mexican restaurant down the street and my dead grandmother's fake pharmacy-perfume, but thrift shops have always held a sort of appeal to me - not to mention everything in 'em is dirt cheap, which is a plus when you're only making a few bucks above minimum wage.

I'm not really that unique, there's like a universal fascination with thrift stores. Some people are attracted to the whole idea of the stories behind clothes, like who wore these pants before? What sort of life did they live? Can I write a multi-point of view story about the many different people who wore this sweater and submit it to a literary arts magazine? But what I've always liked is the whole second chance. That even though something's been already used and abused once, someone else out there will still find interest in it, still want it. It's like reincarnation for clothes or furniture. And it's just sort of reassuring. You can be ugly, nicked, stained, scratched, even broken, and you're still worth something. It might be only ninety-nine cents, but it's still some amount. A little more with taxes.

As always, I ended up near the crap section. It was the designated "antiques" part of the shop, an area filled with miscellaneous stuff, items so useless you won't even find them on ebay. Although I usually spent half an hour searching for anything that looked remotely actionable anyway. I looked over the usual junk items, like assorted candle holders, predictably boring paintings, and dusty glass trays. But my hands ended up tripping over one thing I hadn't expected to see for a long time, let a lone in the thrift shop, of all places.

It was easily recognizable, a sort of token of senior year. Clyde, in all his newfound gay-ness, had thought it would be the coolest thing if we – Token, Tweek, Clyde, me – all went to one of these lame pottery painting places and decorated our own mugs or plates so we would have something to remember each other by. He'd ended up having to pay me twenty dollars before I was convinced enough to leave the house and actually do it. I didn't even touch the mug Clyde picked out for me to decorate, preferring to let Tweek create his shaky artwork all over it instead. You wouldn't know it unless you'd been there, but the poorly-painted lines and circles on the ceramic mug were meant to represent the four of us. In the end, I'd given it to Tweek to keep.

I fingered the mug delicately in my hands, as though it was on the verge of spinning out of them in a suicidal leap onto the floor. The lighting bounced off the glossy surface, leaving reflected, white blemishes where my painted-face was. Finding his things here, before he'd even returned...why was that? It was as if he was leaving again. I turned the mug over to examine the bottom, where I'd remembered signing my name way too many years ago. It'd been chipped off, though, leaving a rough and uneven surface. I replaced the mug on the shelf briefly, and saw that sat at an angle.

It was the only thing I bought that day, feeling like I was bringing something back from the dead as I handed over seventy-five cents. I almost snapped at the cashier for being so careless as she handed me back the already chipped mug with the painted-on memories, settling for flipping her off instead as I left the store and made my way back over to the bus stop.

Clyde wasn't back yet when I entered the apartment, stamping small tufts of snow off of my sneakers before entering. Whether he was there or not, Clyde had this uncanny ability to detect when I had not wiped my feet on the doormat. I took the mug, wrapped up in the plastic "THANK YOU" bag from the thrift shop, and stuffed it in the pocket of my coat, which I then rolled up and actually put away in my drawer for once. It wasn't as if it would be devastating if Clyde found out – if it would be anything if Clyde found out, but some things I just liked keeping hidden.

He came back around 4:30, while I was in the middle of watching some cheap family sitcom, a bowl of cereal balanced precariously on one knee as I watched. So far, the lead character, the father, had decided to lend his car to his teenage son, who had proceeded to accidentally drive it off a cliff. It was the stupidest thing I'd ever seen, but at the same time, I could easily see myself doing something like that with Clyde's car.

I heard the door click open, followed by the rustle of plastic bags brushing against the doorway and an enthusiastic,"Hey!"

"Hey," I replied from the couch, too comfortable at that point to even turn my head. "What'd you get?"

"Uh, 'The Happening' for watching and Chinese food for eating."

"You got a film with Mark Wahlberg? What was the point of even picking up dinner?"

"Uh, I don't know?" replied Clyde, moving in front of the TV. He'd learned by now the quickest way to my attention was blocking the TV. I flicked my eyes up towards him, "I mean, he's not that bad. Token said it was good."

"Well Token's also dating Ms.'Get Your Rosaries Off My Ovaries,' so that tells you all about his taste."

"Dude you need to get over Wendy."

"Sure, when she stops trying to make us the poster children for her gay marriage campaign. There's plenty of other gay guys around here," I muttered, trying to click off the TV with the remote, but Clyde was also blocking whatever received the remote's signal.

Clyde sighed dramatically, muttered something like 'God, Craig...' and then disappeared to go get plates. I knew he was pissed, because we were on the verge of falling into one of those topics of conversation that usually ended with Clyde purposefully hogging all the covers at night.

So I made it up to him by starting the movie up. Which may sound like the smallest possible token of affection that could possibly be displayed, but anyone who thinks that has not met our DVD player. It's a bitch just getting the disc inside because the second you hit the 'open' button, the little disc tray pops out and then pulls right back in. Clyde's kind of an idiot and always ends up pinching his fingers when he tries it, so I graciously put myself at risk to begin the movie instead.

"Hey, you got the movie going!" exclaims Clyde predictably, moving towards the coffee table to set down a tray packed with small, white cartons of Chinese food.

"Yea – what the hell ever possessed you to listen to Token and get this?" I asked, reading the back of the DVD cover.

"Hey, you liked the Sixth Sense didn't you? It's directed by the same guy."

"Right, but did it have Mark Wahlberg?" I replied, moving over to the couch as the opening credits flashed across the screen.

"Let it go, man," teased Clyde, breaking open the cartons. "Here," he said, offering me a fork. It'd been made clear long ago that chop sticks and Craig were two forces never meant to come against each other.

The movie was every bit as horrible as I had imagined it to be. Which is usually to be expected whenever it's not my turn to pick a movie. The highlight of these nights is watching Clyde fall asleep. He never makes it through a whole movie – ever. He's seen thousands of movie beginnings but hardly any endings. It always starts about ten minutes in, when he starts to lean in against me. Then pretty soon he'll be yawning, he'll forget what's going in the plot. He'll ask like 'who is that?' and 'what's with the dying chick?' and then eventually he'll just stop asking questions. That's the best part – not because I get to stop watching whatever shitty movie he's picked out, but because it's when you turn around to say something to him and realize he's totally out. Eyes closed, side rising slowly with his breathing, limbs limp. It's always weird to think that the second Clyde (or anyone, really) closes their eyes, it's like the hours just speed by. That he's not there for any of this, that all the time I spend just watching him breathe peacefully is completely skipped over.

Un-attaching myself from him is always an interesting process. Clyde's a deep sleeper, but just like every other night, I held my breath as I got up from the couch and watched Clyde's hand slowly uncurl from my shirt and fall onto the sofa cushions. He didn't wake up. And he was still breathing softly, rhythmically, as I carried him from the living room and gently left him on the bed.

It's the worst thing, watching someone who's already sleeping by the minutes and hours into the next day while you're still trapped in consciousness. I took a shower, clicked off all the lights and moved in the bed next to Clyde, but it was an hour later almost – checking the clock, I saw 12:37 AM – and I was still completely awake, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. If I turned my head one way, they looked like a rabbit doing ballet. Staring at the red, block letters of the alarm clock on my bedside table, I realized that I was clearly not meant to sleep that night. I was still so awake that it took no effort to roll out of bed and slip on my wool pajama bottoms. I almost jotted something down on a stickey note as I shrugged on my jacket, but fought the impulse with reason. I mean, how likely was it that Clyde would wake up in the middle of the night?

It was like falling into the arctic ocean as I walked outside, pulling my coat tighter. Maybe I should have put on a shirt or something. There was no one else outside, just me and the empty streets, awash in the orange glow of street lamps. I loved these nights frozen in time, like stepping out of my world and into this one. I started walking, watching my breath materialize in front of me, when the small bump in my pocket reminded me of exactly why it was I couldn't sleep.

I withdrew the mug with trembling fingers, an action thanks to the cold, not any sort of dramatic feeling. I don't do that, everything stays stopped up inside. You don't let your feelings leak through into your actions.

I stopped at the crosswalk, looking over the mug again. Maybe...I looked up, searching the neighborhood. Clyde had said he was moving in close by the coffee shop, right? The housing market in South Park wasn't really that hot, and there could only have been one house for sale in that area. I could find it, just sort of drop the mug off there...at two AM, leaving weirdly nostalgic 'welcome home' gifts on un-moved in doorsteps seemed like a fantastic idea. And, besides, this was a different sort of world at this time, remember? Where it was totally normal for people to go parading around icy sidewalks in their slippers.

Tweek Bros. was closed when I reached its street. Not like you'd expect it to be open past midnight, I mean, weirdos who wander around in the middle of the night don't usually make up a big part of coffee consumers. I know I'm not running on caffeine right now, at least.

It was surreal, searching around for the house, for the single, largest piece of proof I would have that Tweek was actually coming back. Struggling to stay friends, to stay in contact with him was a lot like staying friends with a missing kid from the back of milk carton. You've got a picture, and it's there, so somewhere the actual kid has to exist. But you never hear their voice, and the only pictures you've got to go on are outdated snapshots from the high school yearbook or pictures from late-night parties that weren't meant to fall into the public eye.

Well, Tweek wasn't a missing person. But he'd been gone from my life for so long he might as well have been.

I saw the sign first. You'd think the enormous moving truck parked outside would have been the biggest give away, but it was the white 'FOR SALE' sign, shaped like a gallows with the real estate information hanging eerily in the dark that caught my eye. It hadn't even been changed to 'SOLD.' I hung back awkwardly. There were a bunch of boxes scattered around in the snow, and the front door was hanging open. Clyde told me that Tweek had said the moving truck wasn't coming until tomorrow, so the truck parked outside had to be there for the family moving out. I stared down at the mug in my hand, realizing this wasn't something I had counted on. Who would, though? Seriously, who the hell moves out at two in the morning?

It would probably have been a good idea to go home and not scare the shit out of whatever family was leaving, but then, good ideas have never really been my thing. It was then I heard the door slam. The sound was too sharp for the quiet that was always meant to accompany night. It was even stranger to look up and realize I wasn't the only one walking around in pajamas this late at night. But by far it was seeing who it was that made it the most surreal.

It was like the slowly-aging vision of him in my mind had just slipped into reality; he transitioned so well out of my imagination to standing in the snow, then kneeling over a cardboard box to read the drawn-on label. His hair still stuck up in that gravity-defying way, and dark circles ravaged his eyes, like they always had. And when he stood up, it was clear he hadn't conquered another inch since 10th grade. I could have just waved good-bye to him in the airport as he boarded the plane to Tennessee, the first part of his connect flight to Washington. It was all so normal I couldn't even be surprised.

And then small imperfections started leaking through. The light from the street lamps caught a flash off his face as he turned, and I realized he was wearing glasses – right, he'd told me about that, hadn't he? But still, it was strange to see him push the sliding lenses up his nose with practiced instinct. And what I had initially taken for shaking I saw to be shivering from the cold – trust me, with Tweek, there's a difference. His buttoned-up shirt was exactly that. Buttoned-up, perfectly. It wasn't the image that bothered me, but it was knowing he'd done it all himself. Almost every morning of high school I'd met him by the flagpole with Token and Clyde, and he'd still be desperately working on trying to fix his shirt properly in time for school. And in the end I had always been the one to slip each button into the correct loop, just before the bell rang.

I folded the mug back inside my pocket, watching as his head snapped up fearfully at the rustling sound from the plastic bag. His head shook so fast, he sent the glasses barely perched on them swinging off and into the snow. He let out a sharp exclamation, quickly snatched them up and ran into the house, shutting the door with the same, sharp click that had first alerted me to his presence. I stared at the place where he'd disappeared, and shook my head, turning around to leave.

Yea. If anyone would move into a new house at two AM, it'd make sense for it to be Tweek Tweak.


End file.
